by Kathryn Spratt
My husband hates the Lindsay Clancy case.
Why must I bring it up again?
It's not like
I'm her.
I take one
pill to keep me sweeping up cheerios
when they fall on the floor.
It's not like
I thought my friend was her
when I said
You drop off your baby girl
anytime.
No judgement.
No questions asked.
I need him to help me carry the horror
like he might a bag of dog food.
Open this can of peaches, please.
Reach the top shelf
of my heartsick disbelief.
That’s it, isn’t it?
It's not like
I feel an urge to kill the infant-
ilization of my kind,
to be the woman’s voice
in a tired man’s head
hissing, We can be killers like
we can be astronauts, engineers,
mothers, doctors,
and even
circus tightrope walkers.
We can murder.
Otherwise, we’re all
little girls
tiptoeing on exercise bands
spread flat on basement floors.
Kathryn Spratt teaches and writes in a quiet corner of the Western United States. Her poetry has appeared in Eunoia Review, Rat's Ass Review, and elsewhere. She has been honored with a first place Brilliant Poetry competition award and an Eleanore B. North Poetry Award.
